The Man On The Wall
by PsandQs
Summary: Written shortly after the end of season 9. Faced with the prospect of losing his job, Harry leaves London to see if he is able to live a normal life, but gets more than he bargained for. Meanwhile, Towers tries to enlist Ruth's help to save Harry's career, and places her in a difficult position.
1. Chapter 1

- 0 -

_I don't want to feel like I'm covered in blood any more._

_I think it's time for somebody else to stand on the wall for a bit._

- Harry Pearce, _Spooks Episode 9.1_

- 0 –

_10 November  
London_

He walks. For hours, he strides the streets of the city he loves so much. There are too many memories, and they flit through his mind as he passes every familiar building, every bridge, every bench. Hundreds of people walk by him, none of them realising they've just rushed past the man that's stood between them and terror so many times. It starts to drizzle, but he pays it no heed. He keeps on walking, following the river, passing the Houses of Parliament. The scene of so many unsavoury political battles, and he remembers them all. He remembers every distasteful concession he's had to make, every little piece of his soul he's had to sell to save the people around him. He walks with no particular destination in mind, no aim other than to quell the restlessness that's permeated his mind and taken up residence in his heart.

His suspension and the subsequent Inquiry into his career was announced a week ago. Richard Dolby personally came onto the Grid to announce the decision, trying, and failing miserably, to hide his personal satisfaction at the turn of events. He brought with him Peter Graves, a Section Head from MI6; the man who would fill in for Harry during his suspension. Harry was relieved at the choice; he had worked with Graves before and respected him. As he was escorted from his office, he looked up to see his team stand in the middle of the Grid, huddled together forlornly. Ruth stood apart, with a slight frown on her face, fiddling with a pen. When he met her eyes, he couldn't read her thoughts or feelings. He'd turned to Graves, and asked him to take care of his people; to treat them with the respect they deserved. Then, without hesitation or a backward glance, he stepped through the doors.

And now, here he is, walking the streets of London, thinking about all the decisions he's made, the things he's done, the people he's sacrificed. All in the name of protecting his country.  
_Regnum Defende._  
He wonders whether it was worth it. The Inquiry starts tomorrow, and there is enough in his past to send him down many times over, should they so choose. Getting rid of him permanently, then, will be laughably easy. He knows all this. He also knows that he has enough on anyone who might sit on the Inquiry panel to buy his pardon. But he won't use it.

Looking up, he finds himself standing across the street from Thames House. He studies the imposing building, revelling in the beauty of it for once. As his eye catches the CCTV camera trained on the street, he wonders what his team are doing, what unimaginable horror they are fighting at this particular moment. He feels the familiar grip of anxiety in the pit of his stomach, the same feeling he's had every time he stepped through those doors in the last thirty years. Wondering if today is the day that he would fail, and people would die.

It is only now, standing in front of Thames House, that he realises what he is doing. He is saying goodbye. Because if the outcome of the Inquiry is as expected, he knows that he could not stay on in London. There are too many memories here, and it will drive him mad to walk these streets every day, not knowing what is really going on. With a last lingering look at the building, he turns back towards the river. He walks away, head bowed.

- 0 -

_One hour later_

Tariq waits until Graves leaves the Grid for a meeting in Whitehall before calling Ruth over.  
"There's something you need to see."  
He shows her the CCTV footage. They can clearly see Harry standing, looking at the building pensively. Then he turns and walks away.  
"I had a trawl through the footage from all over the city. He's been walking around the streets for hours," the young techie explains, showing her various images of Harry walking in the rain. "He doesn't even have an umbrella," he adds a little plaintively.  
Ruth has nothing to say to that, and squeezes his shoulder reassuringly.  
"Where is he now?"  
Tariq flicks through the cameras, finding the one he wants. A lone figure sits on a bench, watching the rain fall on the river. _Their_ bench, Ruth realises with a pang.  
"He's just been sitting there for the last hour." He turns serious dark eyes on her.  
"What is he doing, Ruth?"  
She shakes her head.  
"I don't know." Even as she speaks the words, the knot of fear that's formed in her heart ever since the loss of Albany twists a little tighter. She is beginning to suspect what he's doing.  
"Tariq, I need you to do something for me."

- 0 -

_11 November  
JIC Offices_

Harry waits in the corridor, staring at a rather unimaginative landscape in oil by a painter he's never heard of. He wonders fleetingly whether it was put there on purpose; its bleak colours perhaps meant to be a subliminal message to the doomed waiting to be called into the Inquiry room. The door opens just as he's rolling his eyes at himself for the absurd thought, and he is ushered in.

He finds himself facing a half circle of tables. Six people are seated behind them, each with an impressively thick folder in front of them. He can make out the words TOP SECRET and EYES ONLY typed in bold red letters across the cover. His file, he assumes. The usher directs him to a lone table facing the half circle, two chairs positioned behind it. Harry sits down in the left hand chair. He has nothing in front of him. The usher hovers behind him, and Harry realises he is holding a Bible in his hand. There are microphones positioned before each seat, and a camera directed at Harry's position. He stares into the lens for a few moments, before directing his attention at the person directly opposite him. It is the only person in the room he doesn't know personally.

The man carefully centres the file in front of him, before clearing his throat.  
"Let's start."  
He regards Harry dispassionately, if a little curiously.  
"Will the panel state their names and positions, starting on my left."  
"Gregory Fowler, representing the Office of the Prime Minister."  
"Susan Green, Director General of MI6."  
"William Towers, Home Secretary."  
"Charles Buckhurst, Director General of MI5."  
"Richard Dolby, Chairman of the Joint Intelligence Committee."

"Thank you. And I am Judge Stephen Bishop, brought in on request of the Home Secretary to ensure that the defendant receives a fair hearing."  
To have an outsider at the Inquiry of a senior Intelligence Officer is highly irregular. Harry glances at Towers, who looks inordinately pleased with himself.  
"Will the defendant state his full name and position?"  
_And so it begins_, he thinks.  
"Henry James Pearce, Section Head Counter Terrorism at MI5."

Somewhere on the Grid, Ruth is hunched over a monitor, earphones on, listening and watching the hacked feed Tariq managed to get.

The judge glances at the empty chair at Harry's table.  
"Sir Harry, have you been informed that you are allowed to have legal counsel with you? I was told that you would have one of MI5's lawyers to represent you."  
"Yes, legal counsel was offered to me. I declined."  
"I see." Judge Bishop watches the man in front of him for a few moments, then looks around the room. He is an experienced man with many years on the bench, and he can sense the desire for blood from those on his side of the table. This is a witch-hunt if ever he's seen one. The man on the other side is either very brave, or very stupid to walk into this on his own, he decides. After having read the file in front of him, though, he knows which way he's leaning.

He nods at the usher, who gets Harry to stand and swear on the Bible to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Harry marvels at the absurdity of getting a man who lies for a living to take this oath, but does as he's told. He sits back down, wondering whether the judge got everyone facing him to swear the same oath. Somehow he doubts it.

The formalities dispensed with, the usher leaves the room, and Dolby gets to his feet. He is to be the main accuser, it seems. As he begins to speak in that irritating voice, Harry momentarily amuses himself by counting the ways in which he could kill Dolby with what is at hand in the room. It comes to a total of twenty-three.

"We are here today because Sir Harry is accused of handing a state secret to a traitor, who was acting on behalf of the Chinese. This is just the latest and most serious incident in a career riddled with poor judgement, a blatant disregard for authority, and an unwillingness to move with the times. He has run Section D like his own personal fiefdom, expecting his officers to be loyal to him rather than to the Service."  
Dolby is getting into full stride now, and has begun to walk around the room during his monologue. Judge Bishop interrupts, an irritated note creeping into his voice.  
"We are not in an American courtroom, Mr Dolby. Kindly stop strutting around like you are."

Chastised, Dolby returns to his seat. The judge waits until he is seated before addressing the defendant.  
"Is this true, Sir Harry?"  
Harry's eyes remain on Dolby.  
"Which part?"  
Judge Bishop suppresses a smile.  
"Quite. Did you hand a state secret to a traitor, causing it to end up in the hands of the Chinese?"  
Harry looks down at the table for a moment before answering.  
"Yes. I did."

Only Ruth, who knows Harry so well, hears the note of self-recrimination in his voice.

The judge and Harry keep eye contact. When Harry doesn't elaborate, the judge asks: "Why?"  
The slightest of smiles lifts the corners of Harry's mouth.  
"I found the alternative unacceptable."  
Eyebrows rise around the table at the enigmatic answer.  
"You'll have to do better than that, Harry," the MI5 DG barks. "Stop playing silly buggers and give us a straight answer!"

Once again, it is only Ruth that recognises the exact moment that Harry capitulates. She sees the slightly longer blink of the eyes, the slight twitch of his mouth, and hears the note of resignation in his voice.

"I'm not going to make excuses for what I did. If I were in the same situation again tomorrow, I would do exactly the same. I hope that I will always have the courage not to sacrifice one of my officers when the alternative does not directly threaten the life of anyone else." He is quiet for a moment. "It is a rare thing in this job – to actually be in a position to do something to save the life of one of my officers…"  
He falls silent again.  
"Look, Harry, why don't you take us through it step by step, and explain the options available to you at any particular time," Towers requests, not without sympathy.

So Harry does. He describes the events that led to the man they knew as Lucas North kidnapping Ruth, and his subsequent handing over of Albany. His account is precise and as unemotional as he can manage to make it. He doesn't hide anything: he admits that he let Lucas go after learning of his involvement in the bombing in Dakar, and that he tricked his own team to get his hands on Albany. When he describes his plan to save his officer and get Albany back, he also admits that he knew there was a significant chance that the plan would fail. After he finishes his account, he looks into the faces of each of the six people that hold his fate in their hands. What he reads there makes him close his eyes wearily.

Predictably, it is once again Dolby who is the first to stick in the knife and twist it.  
"Well. I'd say this sorry mess illustrates my point perfectly. And to think how you were always agitating for increased efforts to get Lucas North back from the Russians."  
He turns to Harry.  
"Of course, this is not the first time one of your officers turned out to be a traitor."  
He counts them down on his fingers.  
"Connie James, who _you_ brought back into the fold, and subsequently gave the opportunity to compromise Sugarhorse. Then there was Ros Myers, who fell in with the Yalta group. Together with your former lover, no less. Juliet Shaw?"  
He rolls the name around his mouth like one does with a good wine.  
"Not to forget Tom Quinn, who actually _shot_you! I'd say you've shown yourself to be an extremely poor judge of character, Harry."

Harry says nothing. He knows there is nothing he can say. How do you explain the complexities of a spy's psyche to these people? Or how thin the line between loyalty and betrayal can sometimes be? God knows, even he doesn't fully understand it himself, still, after all these years.

Dolby, a little irked at getting no reaction from Harry, steps it up a gear.  
"Of course, perhaps we should expect nothing less from a man who's failed so spectacularly in all his personal relationships."  
Harry's gaze snaps to Dolby, who presses on mercilessly.  
"You were barely married when you had an affair with a superior. No wonder the marriage ended in a messy divorce, leading to your ex-wife having a nervous breakdown."  
Sensing that the Home Secretary is about to interrupt, Dolby rushes on.  
"Not to mention the fact that your children hate you, and your son has a drug problem."  
Towers splutters. "I don't think these personal attacks are called for," he says indignantly. Dolby gives him a challenging look.  
"No? I'd say the information is a stark illustration of this man's inability to form trusting relationships, or meaningful relationships of any kind, for that matter, with the people around him. I mean, he watched the IRA drag his best friend out of a pub in Northern Ireland, and _did nothing_to save him!"

Harry is on his feet, his face ashen.  
"I'm not going to sit here and listen to a litany of the failures in my personal life."  
He turns to Judge Bishop.  
"I have said all I have to say about the Albany matter. As for the rest of the accusations against me – I refuse to dignify these proceedings by responding to them. You have my file. My record either speaks for itself or it does not."  
He looks back at Dolby, a hard, murderous look.  
"You do what you have to do, and let me know the outcome."

Then, with a nod to the Home Secretary, he walks out of the room.

- 0 -

Ruth stares at the screen in shock. Stunned by the viciousness of Dolby's attack on Harry, she sits motionless. She cannot understand why Harry hadn't defended himself more vigorously. And to walk out of the proceedings like that may just have sealed his fate. Slowly, her shock turns into anger. She takes off the headphones, gathers her things, and purposefully walks out the door.

_tbc_


	2. Chapter 2

- 0 -

_One cannot always tell what it is that keeps us shut in, confines us, seems to bury us, but still one feels certain barriers, certain gates, certain walls. Is all this imagination, fantasy? I do not think so. And then one asks: My God! Is it for long, is it for ever, is it for eternity? Do you know what frees one from this captivity? It is very deep serious affection. Being friends, being brothers, love; that is what opens the prison by supreme power, by some magic force._  
**- Vincent van Gogh, **_**Letter to his brother July 1880**_

- 0 –

_11 November  
Harry's house, late evening_

Harry is about to refill his glass when the doorbell rings. Scarlet rushes to the front door, sniffing curiously at the crack along the bottom. He is not expecting any company. And he certainly does not want any after the day he's endured. When he opens the door, Ruth is standing there. For a fleeting moment, his heart lifts, until he notices her set jaw, the slight frown between her eyes, and he realises that she is not here for the reason he so desperately wishes. Wordlessly, he opens the door wider and stands aside, allowing her to brush past him.

After fussing over Scarlet briefly, she follows him into the living room. He's not inebriated, but she can tell he's had a couple of drinks already.  
"I take it you found a way to witness today's proceedings," he asks, not quite looking at her.  
She nods. "Yes."  
He moves towards the drinks tray and lifts a glass in question at her. She watches him for a moment, before suggesting carefully, "Maybe we could have some tea?"  
It wasn't meant as a reproach, but Harry hears it as such. He puts the glass down with more force than intended, and swings towards her.  
"I have just spent the day listening to my failings as a man and an intelligence officer, and how I've destroyed everyone that's ever come close to me. I think I've earned the right to dull my senses should I so wish."

Ruth is taken aback at the vehemence of his response, but when she looks into his eyes, all she sees is hurt. She dips her head and concedes his point with a slight nod. He hands her a glass, careful not to brush her fingers with his own, and slumps into a chair wearily. Ruth perches on the chair opposite, and studies the amber liquid in her glass intently before speaking.  
"You're giving up."  
This time she can't keep the accusatory note out of her voice.  
"What would you have me do?" He stares at her, and no matter how hard he tries, he can't stop the softening of his eyes when he looks at her.  
"Make a stand. Fight for your career. We have enough on everyone on that panel to shut them up."  
"No, Ruth. I won't do that. And neither should anyone else. If my record until now is not enough to convince them to give me another chance, then so be it. I won't blackmail my way out of this."  
She shakes her head.  
"They're not fighting fair, why should you? You _know_they're using what Lucas did to get rid of you."

When he doesn't respond, she leans forward beseechingly.  
"Harry, you deserve better than this. The Service, the country, owes you m-"  
He interrupts her sharply. "No!"  
She stares at him, astonished. "I'm sorry?"  
"Thinking we are _owed _something is the first step on the slippery slope towards treachery, don't you think? 'I should be paid more for the sacrifices I make' or 'I should get more recognition for my successes'. Those are thoughts that only lead to disgruntlement, and disgruntlement leads to resentment, and ultimately to a desire for revenge."  
He pauses, looks at her intently.  
"You said Lucas told you that he'd done enough, and so have you, and that you'd earned the right to act selfishly for once. What is enough? Being tortured and spending eight years in a Russian prison? The death of a loved one? The dedication of a life-time to the detriment of any sort of personal life or happiness? Making awful life and death decisions until you can barely look at yourself in the mirror some days? Having to sacrifice life as you know it – twice? There is no 'enough'. We all chose this job and everything that comes with it of our own free will. We cannot turn around later and complain about the cost of it, and use it as an excuse to do all manner of things."  
He looks into his glass, then continues more softly.  
"When we can't take it any more, we should have the grace to just leave quietly without taking everyone else down with us. The country owes me nothing. I owe it, instead, my loyalty. A task in which I failed."

Ruth doesn't know what to say. After what happened at the Inquiry, she would have understood a certain amount of self-pity and resentment towards the system. Instead, he's given her a quintessentially Harry answer, and, she knows, the essence of how he sees his job. She's not sure whether she's ever admired him more than she does in this particular moment. Also, she finally begins to understand the amount of guilt Harry feels for his role in Albany ending up in the hands of the Chinese.

"You didn't give it away with malicious forethought, though. There are significant extenuating circumstances here, Harry. It was never your intention to betray your country."  
"That may be so. But a man takes responsibility for his actions, and the consequences of those actions, whether he intended those consequences or not. If Lucas had taken responsibility for his actions at any stage, whether back in Dakar or during more recent events, we would not be in this situation."  
She knows he's right, but still tries to assuage his guilt.  
"You were trying to save a life. That's a rather noble goal, I think."  
"Oh you think so? You said it was unfair of me to save you at the expense of Albany."  
"I didn't know it doesn't work. I thought you had endangered thousands of people to save me."  
He looks at her then, and the expression on his face makes her heart hurt even before he speaks.  
"Or perhaps you were rather objecting to the fact that my actions were motivated by love."

Ruth stares at him mutely, shocked by his forthrightness. So many thoughts and feelings run through her in that moment, that she can't make sense of it.  
"Harry…"  
When she falters, he holds up a hand wearily.  
"That was uncalled for. I'm sorry."  
He sighs and looks away, and Ruth realises she has never seen him look more defeated. Before she can speak, he continues.  
"You're wrong, you know. About us not being deserving of a life together, of happiness."  
"That's not what I said."  
"It's what you meant, though, isn't it?"  
She remains quiet. He doesn't know why he keeps on pushing; perhaps it's the alcohol in his system, or the realisation that if the Inquiry finds against him this may be the last time he sees her, but suddenly he wants to get a number of things off his chest.

"While you may be right that I've forfeited any right to happiness, _you_ certainly deserve to be happy, Ruth. Despite what you may think, you're a good person. Compassionate, gentle, and quite wonderful. You're just beginning to learn the lesson that sometimes it's necessary to divorce the human being from the spook. Being able to do that does not equate to being dead inside. I hope that some day soon you will realise that and start to live again."  
Her posture is rigid, and he realises somewhere in the recesses of his mind that his words are unwelcome, but still he presses on.  
"There are many things I should apologise to you for, but I refuse to apologise for loving you."  
He smiles slightly. "Especially as it seems at the moment to be my only redeeming feature."  
Very quickly, he turns serious again. "And I will never, ever apologise for taking every conceivable risk to save your life."

Ruth stares hard at the floor, unable to meet his eyes. She is lost; she doesn't know what to say or do. When she finally looks up, she finds Harry's eyes still on her, soft and loving. But when he sees her turmoil, he carefully shutters his emotions away.  
"I think you'd better go. You're not supposed to be here in the first place."  
"No, we have to talk about this," she pleads.  
But Harry shakes his head.  
"I didn't mean to put you in a difficult position. You don't have to say anything. I understand you don't want-" He falters, unable to say it. Instead he changes the topic.  
"I'm going away for a while. Until the Inquiry is done. I suppose I'd better see if I can adjust to a normal life." He doesn't elaborate, but they both know that soon he may not have a choice in the matter.

Without being aware how she got there, Ruth finds herself at the front door. Harry suddenly leans over and kisses her gently on the cheek.  
"Goodbye, Ruth."  
He closes the door softly behind her, and she is left standing there, with the awful premonition that she will never see him again.

- 0 -

_13 November  
Yorkshire_

He reaches the cottage he's rented in the late afternoon. It is nestled in the coastal woods just south of Runswick Bay, within walking distance of the beach and the restless North Sea. There are no other houses in sight. The quiet, remote setting appeals to him as he noses the Land Rover to a stop next to the cottage. Scarlet sets off to explore her new surroundings the moment he opens the car door, and he lets her be. He knows she won't wander off on her own. For a moment, he stands motionless next to the car, surveying his new abode, listening to the silence, the distant sighing of the ocean. He is acutely aware that this is about as far removed from his usual life as it is possible to get, and self-aware enough to know that he chose this place because it would provide the sternest test of his abilities to adapt to a different life.

After unpacking the few belongings he brought with him, he decides to go into the village to buy some groceries and have dinner at the local pub. It is a charming village, but small, and he attracts quite a few curious glances from the locals. They don't get many visitors out of season, so his arrival is noted with interest. Harry takes care to remain as nondescript as possible. The habits of a lifetime die hard, and he is loath to remain the centre of attention for too long.

The moment he enters the pub, he dislikes it. Apart from the rather bland interior, there is a group of loud-mouthed louts hanging around the bar. They turn to stare at him as he seats himself at a table against the wall, and he is careful not to make eye contact with any of them. His natural inclination is to give them a cold, challenging look, but he doesn't want to attract undue attention or cause trouble on his first day here. So he opens the paper and reads it, resolutely ignoring their snide comments about his scruffy little dog, his boring clothes and his lack of hair. It takes all his self-control not to get up and tell them off, but he perseveres, and eventually they lose interest in him. He finishes his uninspiring meal as quickly as possible, and returns to the cottage with relief.

In the days that follow, he settles into this new life with difficulty. He feels numb, as though he is living in a dream. Every morning he devours the papers, trying to read between the lines and deduce which stories are true, and which are the ones being fed to the public by the Security Services. Most of his day is spent walking, or reading, and trying not to think about all that he is about to lose. After his unpleasant experience in the pub he doesn't go back, and is forced to cook for himself. He discovers some cookbooks in one of the cupboards and attempts some of the simpler recipes. Anything to keep his mind occupied. The first few times he has to call Catherine for advice on an embarrassing amount of occasions, but gradually he gets better at it. He sees it as a major victory that he doesn't poison himself during the first week, and discovers to his surprise that he derives pleasure from succeeding at these recipes.

Even though he avoids the pub, he regularly strolls through the village, nosing around in the little shops. He becomes a familiar figure that no longer attracts undue attention. To his delight he discovers a cosy little second-hand book store where the books are stacked haphazardly on every available surface. He spends many blissful hours browsing, looking for unusual and interesting books to expand his reading repertoire. Sometimes, he stumbles on an old classic, something that Ruth talked about with passion, and his heart aches. He buys them all, and reads them, and knows that of all the things he misses of his old life, she is the one that he will have most difficulty letting go of.

- 0 -

_25 November  
Runswick Bay_

Today he is actually in the village for a purpose. After heavy storms battered the cottage the previous two nights, Harry discovered this morning that the roof has sprung a leak, and that the back door is making an ominous creaking sound when opened. He is in need of a handyman, so he asks around at the hardware store. To his surprise he is directed to the derelict church standing on the edge of the village. As he leaves the store, he notices two of the pub-louts leaning into the window of a Rolls Royce parked across the street. Without seeming to look, he sees one of them take receipt of an envelope which he shoves into his pocket. Harry casually glances at the occupant as the Rolls Royce glides past him. Although he only gets a fleeting glimpse, there is something familiar about the distinguished looking man in the back seat.

He ponders what he has seen as he walks to the church. Something about the man in the car niggles at the back of his mind, but he can't pin it down. He puts these thoughts aside as he reaches the door of the church. It is old, probably medieval, and Harry wonders absently why it isn't a tourist attraction. There are deep gouges scratched into the door. He pushes it open and steps inside, but his call of greeting stalls on his lips. He stands rooted to the spot, appalled at the sight before him. Lewd graffiti covers the walls, whilst the pews have been kicked over and attempts have been made to burn it all in the middle of the floor.

A voice with a thick Yorkshire accent comes from behind. "Can I help you?"  
Harry turns around, and does a double-take. The man before him looks so remarkably like Adam, that for a surreal moment Harry believes it is his dead friend.  
"You all right, mate?" Concerned green eyes stare at him, making Harry realise that it isn't Adam after all. He clears his throat.  
"Sorry, yes. Matthew?"  
The man nods. Harry puts out his hand.  
"Harry. I have a leaky roof and a back door that is about to fall off its hinges. I was told you could help."  
"That I can. Whereabouts are you?"  
Harry provides directions, and Matthew nods.  
"I'll come round first thing tomorrow."

Nodding his thanks, Harry looks back over the damage.  
"What happened here?"  
Matthew rubs his hands on a cloth. "Bunch of local yobs decided to have a fun night out couple of months ago."  
"I think I've met them," Harry says, thinking back to the crowd in the pub.  
"Best stay away from the caravan park – they moved in there like a swarm of locusts about three months ago, and have been making trouble round here ever since," Matthew explains.  
"Right, thanks. So the Church is paying you to restore the damage?"  
Matthew laughs. "No, mate. No-one's paying me. This place no longer belongs to the Church. It was deconsecrated about ten years ago due to a lack of interest from the locals." Matthew looks around him.  
"It's a hobby."  
Harry stares at him.  
"A hobby?"  
Matthew gets the distinct impression that the man before him barely knows the meaning of the word. He shrugs and smiles.  
"I hate to see beauty go to waste. You should see the frescoes underneath the graffiti. So when I have some free time I come here and clean it up."

They stand silently for a few moments; Harry thinking about doing something for no other reason than to restore something old to its former grandeur. Perhaps he can also do with a hobby.  
"Would you like a hand?" The question is out before he has a chance to think about it too much.  
Matthew raises his eyebrows in surprise.  
"From you?"  
"Yes."  
"No offence, mate, but you just hired me to fix your roof and your back door. That doesn't inspire me with confidence in your abilities at this type of work."  
Harry smiles broadly at the younger man's candour.  
"Touché. I can work a sander, though." He gestures at the damaged wooden pews and the front door.  
Matthew studies the man in front of him, then asks, "Am I to assume you're similarly moved by the beauty of the place? Or is it religion?"  
"Erm, no…" Harry looks around again. "History is more my area. I just happen to have some time on my hands at the moment."  
Realising that that is probably the only explanation he will ever get from this mysterious man, Matthew nods.  
"Fine. But on one condition: there is to be no inane prattling while we work."  
Harry huffs. "I do not talk about inane things, and I certainly do not prattle," he says indignantly. When he looks up, he finds the younger man smirking at him. He smiles; he has a feeling they will get along well.

- 0 -

_26 November  
The Grid, early evening_

Ruth doggedly works away at a mound of paperwork. It has been two weeks since anyone has seen or heard from Harry. She knows where he is – he's not made any attempt to hide his whereabouts and she found him after about five minutes of checking. But somehow this knowledge is not enough to stem the growing feeling of loss inside her. She has relived that last conversation in his house so many times, and every time she is more convinced that he was saying goodbye for good, and that he has no intention of coming back, even if he could. Realising that she has spent the last ten minutes thinking about him again, she throws down her pen in annoyance. She had hoped that his absence, the physical distance between them, would allow her to sort through her jumbled feelings, find some peace and perhaps even move on. Instead, he is increasingly occupying her thoughts.

The phone on her desk rings, jerking her out of her reverie.  
"Miss Evershed, this is William Towers. Can you come to my office?"  
Ruth is momentarily lost for words; she has never before been summoned directly by the Home Secretary.  
"Er, of course. Right now?"  
"Yes, if you would."

When she arrives at his office, he closes the door behind her and gets straight to the point.  
"Are you willing to help me save Harry from the Inquiry?"  
She doesn't need to think about her answer.  
"Of course." She looks at him curiously. "But I thought you didn't like him very much. Why do you want to help him?"  
Towers sighs.  
"Yes, well, he's one of the most infuriating people I've ever known." He pauses for a moment.  
"But he is also that most rare of phenomena - a man without a personal or political agenda, who just wants to get the job done. The country needs that in these difficult times."  
"Yes." Ruth smiles slightly. "What do you need me to do?"  
He looks at her intently.  
"I'm sure that the personnel file we've been given has been… shall we say sanitised. Many of the good things he's done have been removed, I suspect, because it makes his superiors look bad. If I had the real file, I'm certain I can persuade enough people on that panel to let him keep his job."

Ruth stares at him as the full implications of what he's asking sinks in.  
"You want me to steal a classified file and give it to you?"  
Towers doesn't say anything, merely looks at her. Ruth looks around the room, as if looking for an escape hatch somewhere.  
"You do realise that I will lose my job, or even go to jail if I get caught?"  
He doesn't waver.  
"Yes. It has a rather familiar ring to it, doesn't it? I suppose the question is, Ruth, whether you are willing to do the same for Harry?"

_tbc_


	3. Chapter 3

- 0 -

_Though much is taken, much abides; and though  
We are not now that strength which in old days  
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;  
One equal temper of heroic hearts,  
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will  
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield._  
**- Lord Alfred Tennyson, **_**Ulysses**_

- 0 –

_26 November  
Home Secretary's office_

Ruth is quiet for a long time, before asking, "Does Harry know what you're doing?"  
"No. He's too proud to ask for help."  
She looks pensive.  
"Or maybe he doesn't want to come back."  
Towers studies her, noting the conflicting emotions running across her face.  
"Miss Evershed, I'm going to assume that he is not thinking very clearly at this particular time. Who can blame him with everything that's happened? But I think he deserves to make that decision on his own terms without being forced into it. Don't you?"

Ruth fiddles with the hem of her jacket restlessly whilst a maelstrom of thoughts runs through her mind. She thinks about her recent criticism of Harry's decisions and actions, how they've struggled to work together after the rejected proposal, and that her work is really all that is giving her life some meaning at present. Can she risk all that to save Harry's career when there is every chance that he no longer wants it? Can she reconcile her conscience with stealing classified information? On the other hand, can she reconcile her heart with not doing everything in her power to save the legacy of the man she increasingly realises she loves more than anything? Can she live with the knowledge that he will forever be remembered for this last desperate act rather than all the good he's achieved? There is a note of anguish in her voice when she finally speaks.  
"I need some time to think about it."

- 0 -

_29 November  
Runswick Bay_

Harry settles in the armchair in front of the fire, stretching his legs in front of him gratefully. His body aches, but it is a good ache; the sort that comes from an honest day of manual labour. He has been helping Matthew in the church for the last two days, and it has been a balm for his psyche. It has been some time since he has felt this relaxed. Almost content.  
Almost, but not quite.

While he manages to empty his mind of all thought about the predicament he is in, and of _her_, whilst he is working with the wood, it all comes back when he relaxes in the evenings. Then his thoughts invariably go to the Grid, and he asks himself whether he really wants to submit himself to the rigours and pressures of that life again. Often he thinks not, but then the faces of all those who've sacrificed their lives rear up, and he feels ashamed. Will he be betraying them as well if he walks away? It's a question he can't yet answer.

The wind coming off the North Sea is bitterly cold, and it buffets the trees around the cottage in great gusts. Matthew informed him that this means they will soon have the first snow. He puts another log on the fire and picks up the book he is reading. For a moment, he doesn't open it, merely rests his hand on the cover gently, remembering. He has given up trying to put Ruth out of his mind for good. After torturing himself with recrimination every time she occupied his thoughts, he has made his peace with it. She will forever be a part of him, and he has decided, for his own sanity, not to fight it any more. So he allows himself a few moments each evening to think of her, to cherish his memories of her. To love her.

It is in that moment that his mind suddenly makes the connection. He knows who the man in the Rolls Royce is. He gets up to pace the living room, carefully dredging every detail he can remember from the recesses of his brain. The book lies temporarily forgotten on the armchair. He takes his time, turning all the snippets of information over in his mind, trying to fit them together like pieces of a puzzle. When it all suddenly clicks together, he stops. Turning towards the window, he stares out at the darkness. He doesn't see the branches bending and whipping in the wind; instead he sees the sweep of coast lying beyond it in his mind's eye, and the vast North Sea beyond that.

As he starts towards his mobile, he experiences a moment of indecision, of questioning his own judgement. Something that has been happening more often than he'd like to admit over the last few months. Is he another sad case of a former intelligence officer who can't let the life go? Is he seeing conspiracies where there aren't any? Or is the instinct that's served him so well throughout his career still alive and well? He wavers for a second longer.  
"Sod it," he says to himself, then picks up his mobile. The other end is answered after just two rings.  
"Malcolm? Do you fancy spending a few days in Yorkshire? And would you mind bringing a few toys along?"

- 0 -

_30 November  
Home Secretary's house, late evening_

William Towers is about to get into bed when his mobile rings. He doesn't recognise the number.  
"Hullo?"  
A female voice speaks. "There is a memory stick in your safe. You'll find everything you need on it."  
Towers is stunned. He did not come away from his meeting with Ruth with any confidence that she would help. And now this. How did she get into his house, and his safe? He recovers quickly.  
"Thank you. May I ask why?"  
There is a smile in her voice when she answers.  
"…Let's just say I found the alternative unacceptable."  
The line goes dead. Towers stares at the phone in his hand, before getting up to go to his safe.  
"Bloody spooks," he mutters, but he is smiling too.

- 0 -

_01 December  
Runswick Bay_

Harry and Malcolm sit around the table with steaming mugs of tea in front of them. They have dispensed with the social niceties and are about to get down to business. Uncharacteristically, Harry hesitates, leading Malcolm to prod, "So, why am I here?"  
Harry sighs. Now that he is about to spell out his suspicions to another person, they seem slightly ridiculous.  
"I'm going to lay out a theory for you, Malcolm, and if you find it inconceivable you are welcome to get right back into your car and go home."  
Malcolm nods, intrigued.

Harry explains his thinking, and as he does so, he can sense the other man's interest sharpen and focus the longer he talks.  
"I saw Charles Devon in the village a few days ago. Curiously, he was handing a fat envelope to one of the local yobs. That piqued my interest – what connection could a distinguished businessman have to a bunch of louts? A few days later I was walking with Scarlet on the beach, and I saw these same guys launching a rubber dinghy from the beach a few times. It was as if they were practising for something. It got me thinking. Remember that Devon's name came up a few times in connection with providing financial and other support to Al Qaeda?"  
Malcolm says, "Yes. I remember his only son was accidentally killed by a British bomb in Afghanistan whilst doing humanitarian work there. We thought that may have motivated the support to Al Qaeda."  
Harry gets up to refill their mugs.  
"Exactly. Just before my suspension, we began to pick up hints that a senior Al Qaeda member will be coming to the UK. He is expected to coordinate a number of terror attacks on British soil."  
He looks at Malcolm.  
"Rumour was that he would come in aboard an oil tanker. We automatically assumed it would be one of the oil tankers arriving from the Middle East, but…"  
Harry paused, looking out the window in the direction of the ocean again.  
"The oil tankers from Norway passes right by the coast here."  
The two men absorb the implications of the statement. Malcolm takes a breath.  
"You think Devon is going to help this man get ashore here, and that he's using those yobs to do it?"  
Harry nods. "I do."

They sit in silence for a while; Harry waits patiently while Malcolm thinks things through. Finally he looks up.  
"Well, the evidence is a little tenuous. But your instincts are seldom wrong, Harry."  
He smiles at his former boss.  
"Where do we start?"  
Harry is greatly moved by the vote of confidence. He has to take a moment before speaking.  
"The yobs are staying in the caravan park. We need to bug them and get more evidence, and hopefully a date for the arrival of the package. That shouldn't be too hard, I should think."  
Malcolm lifts his eyebrows and looks Harry up and down.  
"Except for the fact that neither of us remotely looks the type that would set foot in a caravan park," he points out.  
They look at each other.  
"Bugger," Harry says, with feeling, and they both start to laugh. Once they've calmed down, he smiles at Malcolm enigmatically.  
"I know someone who does, though."

- 0 -

_Two hours later_

"Will you help us?"  
Matthew looks at the two men in front of him incredulously, trying to process everything he's been told. Al Qaeda, terror attacks, British millionaires financing and helping them, and to top it all, the two men in front of him spooks from MI5. All happening in sleepy old Runswick Bay. It seems too farfetched to be true, and yet…  
It is the quiet authority with which Harry informed him of these facts that gives him pause. This is a man used to wielding power, who expects to be obeyed when giving an order. It is also clear that the other man has great respect for Harry. He finds himself nodding in assent.  
Harry says, "That's good," but Matthew has the feeling that he never doubted he would get the assistance he's asked for.

"We'd also like to use the church spire as a base of operations – to pick up the signals from the bugs. It has a nice clear sightline to the caravan park, I've noticed. This does mean either Malcolm or myself will be up there at all times to monitor the equipment. You don't have any objection, do you?"  
Once again, Matthew has the distinct feeling that refusing Harry's request is not an option. He sighs.  
"Fine. But _he_," he points at Malcolm, "better abide by my rule – I don't want any mindless wittering on."  
"I beg your pardon?! I do not 'witter on'!" Malcolm's face is a picture of affrontation.  
Matthew and Harry look at each other in amusement before Harry walks away, laughing.

- 0 -

_04 December  
Runswick Bay_

Malcolm removes his headset when Harry enters the room and drops it on the table in disgust.  
"Dear Lord, I don't think I've ever had the pleasure of listening to a bunch of more uncouth people than this lot. Belching competitions? Whatever happened to reading a good book to pass the time?"  
Harry suppresses a smile.  
"Hmm. We're not exactly dealing with the cream of society here. Anything yet?"  
"No. Just some more information about their drug smuggling activities. They'll be going down for a while once we give it to the Drug Squad," he says with some satisfaction.  
"All right. I'll take the night shift. You get some rest." Harry sets a book down on the table. He stands motionless for a moment, his fingers resting lightly on the cover.

Malcolm watches him silently. He recognises the book as one that he, Harry and Ruth once held an animated debate over. Clearing his throat, he interrupts Harry's reverie in a quiet voice.  
"I happen to know where her choir will be performing on the 12th."  
Harry doesn't bother asking how Malcolm knew he was thinking about Ruth. Instead, he sighs sadly.  
"I don't think she'd want me there, Malcolm. But thank you for the thought."  
Malcolm gets up to leave. As he passes Harry, he presses a piece of paper into his hand.  
"She doesn't have to know you're there, does she?" With that he leaves the other man to his thoughts and regrets.

- 0 -

_10 December  
Runswick Bay_

"Harry!"  
Malcolm comes clattering down the stairs of the spire and bursts into the church. Harry and Matthew look up from their various tasks expectantly.  
"We've got it! We've got a date for the Al Qaeda man's arrival." He looks between his audience of two triumphantly.  
"Next Thursday, the sixteenth. We also have the coordinates of the pick-up and the name of the oil tanker. And," he pauses dramatically, "they mention Devon by name."  
Harry nods, smiles a little, but says nothing. Matthew looks at him with something like wonder.  
"You were right about the whole thing. Bloody hell."  
Malcolm sobers.  
"How are we going to persuade the powers that be, though? They might not believe a suspended officer, or a retired one for that matter."  
Harry looks at one of the restored frescoes pensively, thinking about healing beautiful, damaged things.  
"They'll believe a serving officer though. It seems I'll be attending that choir performance after all."

- 0 -

_12 December  
London, evening_

Harry slips into the darkened hall after the performance has begun. He sits in the back, where Ruth will not be able to spot him in the deep gloom. When he locates her among the choristers, he is unprepared for the intensity of the emotions that wash over him at seeing her again. He inhales sharply, causing the woman next to him to glance at him curiously. Ignoring her, he keeps his gaze fixed on Ruth. God, how he's missed her. For the hour and a half that the performance lasts, he immerses himself in the music, barely daring to blink. He doesn't want to miss a second of this time he's allowed to just observe her, to drink in every minute detail of her appearance. When the performance comes to an end and the choir leaves the stage, he feels bereft. He slips out the door. It is time to put his plan into action.

Ruth is one of the last people to exit the hall through the smaller side entrance. When she steps outside into the narrow lane, she notices that fog has settled over London. It makes the street lights glow with other-worldly halos. She has just reached her car when a young boy approaches her.  
"Excuse me, Miss?"  
She turns towards him. He thrusts three long-stemmed red roses, wrapped in paper, at her.  
"These are for you."  
As soon as she takes them from his outstretched hand, he darts off.

"Wait!" She starts after him when she catches a glimpse of a very familiar silhouette under a streetlamp halfway down the block; an impression of a stocky figure in a long dark coat with an upturned collar. Her heart lurches. But when she turns to look at the spot, there is no-one there. Only the suggestion of misted breath still hanging in the air. Or perhaps it is just the fog. Ruth stands on the pavement for a moment, surprised at the depth of her disappointment. Then she gets into the car and carefully unwraps the roses. There is a memory stick taped to the stems, and she smiles. Maybe it wasn't just her imagination conjuring up the one person she so desperately misses, after all. As she drives home she feels happier than she's done in a long time.

- 0 -

_13 December  
JIC Offices_

Towers bustles into the room with a heavy looking cardboard box in his hands. He looks up at the other five members of the panel, noting their expressions of annoyance and Dolby's pointed look at his watch.  
"Sorry I'm late," he says, sounding out of breath.  
He dumps the heavy box on the table and starts unloading thick folders from them, which he hands around.

The MI5 DG, Charles Buckhurst, frowns. "What's this?"  
"This," Towers says, straightening his spine gratefully and beaming at them genially, "is Harry Pearce's full file."  
They all stare at him in amazement. Dolby and Buckhurst share a quick glance.  
Towers continues, "It seems, Judge Bishop, that the original file provided to us was missing some salient information." He looks at Dolby and Buckhurst.  
"Strangely enough, it is mostly things that would paint Harry in a good light that seems to be missing. Such as him volunteering to infiltrate the Iranian embassy during that siege in May 1980, and spending six days isolated inside, constantly under threat of discovery and death, so that he could feed back information to the outside? Or how he saved Prime Minister Thatcher's life during the Chelsea vs Boca Juniors match in August 1983? Then there was the time he saved Prime Minister John Major's life from a terrorist attack on 10 Downing Street. Not to mention that he had to do it on his own, because his superiors disregarded his warnings about the imminent attack. Luckily for our then PM, Harry is the type of man to disregard orders and follow his instincts on some occasions."

Dolby is on his feet, his face a peculiar shade of red.  
"This is outrageous! Where did you get this file?" He turns to the other panel members.  
"It's a fake. I'm guessing you got it from Ruth Evershed. Well, she's obviously trying to save her lover's career by faking this nonsense-"  
Towers interrupts him.  
"Come now, Richard. Let's not be vulgar. Miss Evershed is not the only one who wishes to save Harry, and that's all I'm going to say about my source. As to the authenticity of the information, don't take my word for it."  
He turns to Judge Bishop.  
"I have two witnesses who would like to speak on Sir Harry's behalf."  
When the judge nods his assent, Towers goes to the door and calls them in.

As soon as they enter the room, all colour drains from Dolby and Buckhurst's faces. Everyone in the room hurriedly get to their feet, and a deathly hush settles over the room. No-one dares to speak whilst the two people are being seated. Before the members of the panel can sit back down, one of the witnesses breaks the silence.  
"You're a bunch of idiots for wanting to get rid of Harry Pearce," Baroness Thatcher states in that high, distinctive voice, staring them down.  
Beside her, John Major nods his assent.

- 0 -

_16 December  
Runswick Bay, dawn_

Harry and Malcolm watch from their concealed vantage point as the rubber dinghy beaches itself with a low rumble of the engine. They count four silhouettes in the boat. The men begin to unload three heavy-looking suitcases.  
"The explosives," Malcolm murmurs. Harry nods.  
The next moment, Special Forces are swarming all over the beach, taking down the men and confiscating the suitcases. It all goes off without a hitch as they catch the men totally unawares. The two spooks retreat quietly to Harry's cottage, where they celebrate with a hearty breakfast and freshly brewed coffee.

Harry is pleasantly surprised at how much satisfaction he derives from the successful outcome.

- 0 -

_23 December  
Runswick Bay, early morning_

When Harry and Scarlet return from their habitual early morning walk she is waiting for them. Seated on a log next to the front door of the cottage, her red scarf is the only splash of colour against the snow covered surroundings. Harry freezes at the sight of her, but Scarlet bounds over and showers her with affection. She gathers the wriggling dog in her arms, then looks at him hesitantly.  
"Hi."  
He finally finds his voice.  
"Ruth. Hi. This is unexpected."  
She puts the dog down and faces him again.  
"The Inquiry made their decision yesterday. I wanted to be the one to give you the news."  
Harry hasn't moved since spotting her, and they look at each other across the expanse of snow between them. He is trying desperately not to get his hopes up.  
"You could have just called," he says rather cautiously.  
She doesn't take her eyes off him.  
"I know."

Something in her expression makes his heart beat a little faster. He takes a step closer.  
"Let's hear it, then."  
Her face breaks into a smile.  
"You've been given a suspended sentence. Harry, you're free to return to the Grid immediately." She searches his face, but when his expression remains carefully neutral, some of her joy evaporates. All her fears that he has decided not to come back returns in force.  
"The team really wants you back," she says anxiously.  
Harry looks off towards the trees.  
"Graves not working out then?"  
Ruth frowns at the turn in the conversation.  
"Graves is fine; fair, conscientious, hardworking."  
"But?"  
She takes a breath.  
"But he's not you."

Harry takes a few steps closer, so that she now has to look up at him from her seated position.  
"And you, Ruth? Would you be all right with my returning to the Grid? Given everything that's happened?"  
Her eyes slide away from his intense look. She takes so long to answer that he feels the flicker of hope in his heart go out again. But then she sighs, and smiles just a little.  
"…These last two months I've discovered that my fulfilment is as closely linked to the people that surround me at the office, as it is to the work itself. And to one colleague in particular; someone that I missed very much once he was no longer there. Someone that I adore. Despite everything that's happened."  
She resolutely meets his eyes when she says the last bit.

Harry takes a deep breath, his legs suddenly weak. He sits down next to her, shoulders touching, and both stare in front of them nervously. They are acutely aware of the weight of the occasion, and both desperate to get it right for once. Finally, he turns to her.  
"Would you like to drive back to London with Scarlet and me?"  
Ruth closes her eyes in relief at the implications of that simple question.  
"Yes, thank you."  
He nods, and fiddles with Scarlet's ears anxiously as he dares to ask another one. As he dares to believe.  
"And Ruth?"  
"Yes Harry?"  
"Would you have dinner with me tomorrow night?"  
She turns to look into his eyes, tilting her head a little and giving him a genuine, joyous smile. It is the smile of a woman who is ready to start living again.  
"I'd love to."

_Fin_

**Note: The information about events in his early career comes from Harry's Diary.  
I ignored the well documented health problems of Margaret Thatcher for the purposes of this story, because let's face it, John Major on his own just does not have the same intimidatory presence.**


End file.
